


looking for sunlight

by angree_baratheon



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: NO SEXUAL UNDERTONE WHATSOEVER, Other, and it shows, but he's a good sibling anyways, gendry isn't used to having siblings, lowkey mommy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 08:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18257426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angree_baratheon/pseuds/angree_baratheon
Summary: The tale of Gendry growing up in the Red Keep as the Prince, until he isn't.





	looking for sunlight

**roman holiday**. _noun_. an occasion on which enjoyment or profit is derived from others' suffering or discomfort.

* * *

 

 

Gendry is sixteen when the truth comes out.

 

.

 

When he is only a babe, barely able to lift up his head, he is told he caught a dangerous fever. His thick black hair mats with sweat against his wrinkling forehead, and he cries for so long that, after days, his young throat seems to have lost its voice. He carries the next few days with pained whimpers, instead. And all throughout those dreadful weeks when the fever hadn't seem to abate, no matter how many medicines have been fed, no matter how many prayers have been sent to all the gods, Mother stays by his side.

Except for one night.

The only night Mother, as the stories goes, is red-eyed and tight-lipped; nodding to Maester Pycelle when he has come to her again to persuade Mother that there is nothing to be done.

They tell him that Mother is devastated. Her first child, and a disease is quick to steal him away when she had only gotten to hold him for only a few moons. But no maids nor knights in the Keep were willing to hear his tired whimpers any longer. "End his suffering," they had said to her, even when Mother had blatantly ignored and snapped in the fashion Gendry knows all too well, "And he shall meet you again in the afterlife, always waiting for the one who had courageously gave life to him."

They tell him it wasn't easy, but finally — Mother leaves his nursery.

The handmaiden hushes him down, gives him the milk of the Poppy, wishfully thinking that — with the last drop of his eyelids being closed shut, it will never open to cry out soundless help that nobody seems to be able to give a hand to.

The next day when Mother is expecting to stare at a corpse of her barely-a-child son, she receives a pink-cheeked baby boy slumbering in his cot instead. Maester smiled, greyed and meaningful, but nothing, they tell Gendry, is like how Mother had draped himself next to him, finger against his cheek as she whispered, "He's warm." There is no sign of the intense fever. Gendry is healthy again all of a sudden, moving only just a tiny bit when Mother's nail scrapes gently against the swell of his cheek. They tell him Mother cries and laughs all at the same time, swearing to all Gods above that nothing shall ever separate them if she could help it. "My baby boy. My wonderful son. He's warm again."

They tell him, they should've known then.

 

.

 

Gendry grows up healthily afterwards.

He is bigger than the other children, thick unruly hair and fierce blue eyes. When he is three and is instructed to learn his speeches properly at Grandfather's will, he learns that people have expected for him to grow up strong and capable like father had been, once, when he is not grey-haired and lazy, sitting on his throne and cursing away at the men below him. Of course, he is too young to fully realise that these will be thoughts he will develop later. At three, Gendry only knows father as the man he has to sometimes speak to, occasionally. Father likes his hair, this he knows. Always patting it and ruffling them until they are no longer slicked back and straight anymore. Gendry never likes that; all of the handmaidens are annoying, true, especially when they'd fuss over him in the morning to wake up and clean himself, but that does not mean anybody is allowed to rumple all of the effort they've done to make sure Gendry looks like Mother and Father's child, _the Prince_.

In any case, Gendry isn't close to father. He is loud and boisterous and gets angry easily.

Mother isn't like that. Mother is protective and loving and every time Gendry gets irritated because all of the other children has never seemed to like playing with him since he is too stubborn and he glares too much (they say), Mother will hush him down simply with a kiss to the crown of his head and tuck him against her chest and they will sit like that, just the two of them, doing particularly nothing, and Gendry will not feel so irritated anymore.

When he is four, he decides that _playing with other children_  aren't as thrilling of an idea anymore. Mother asks him if he's sure, if he truly doesn't wish for his friends to come by any longer, and Gendry has to grit his teeth together, blue eyes falling to the floor in an equal amount of guilt and annoyance at the reminder, spits, "They are not my friends." _Friends don't make fun of each other_ , he thinks to himself. _Friends don't make one another feel bad about themselves_.

But he knows the children sometimes come not completely for the sake of entertaining Gendry. Grandfather once sat him down to explain that it was more for the adults to spend some time together when the children are left playing with themselves. They will talk and discuss serious important adult things that will bring either bond or break the Houses together. Hence, it was important that Gendry learns to be friendly. Or else, when will the adults have the time to speak?

He tells Mother this. "Grandfather is right," he admits sullenly. If this was his tutor, they would've told him that he looks the spitting image of his Father, young as he may be, when he frowns like that. Gendry doesn't like looking like Father. He wishes, just a tiny bit, he can have something of his Mother in his looks. "If I must play with them, I will."

Mother stares, and she lets it linger. Gendry suddenly feels all too small under her eyes.

Finally, with a pursed lips, she cradles Gendry's head the way she has always done to bring him close, her own shake while she answers, "Nonsense." Mother kisses his temple and runs her thin finger through his black, _blackest_ of hair. "If you don't wish to spend another second with those rotten children, you will not. You are a prince, Gendry." Mother cups his face, and says it through her teeth like he thinks he does sometimes. Maybe he does have something of Mother in him. "And a prince shall have whatever a prince wants."

 

.

 

Gendry soon find Mother isn't always right.

If Gendry had gotten things his way, he wishes Mother's belly never swell. He hears stories from the children that come, and things he learn in his lessons, about big brothers and sisters, and about the responsibility of being the eldest. Though, it isn't about what he must do as the first son that bothers him as much. It is mainly because Mother grows tired the larger she is, and the handmaidens around the Keep has been telling Gendry to not rely on Mother too much. She'll have to pay attention to the younger one now, they say. You are to learn to stand up against the world on your own.

Gendry doesn't know why that sentence strikes him so much, but it does.

Joffrey is born just a few moons before Gendry is five. He is bald and red when he comes out, and Gendry doesn't like much the smell that he brings when he is birthed, but Mother kisses Joffrey with relieved tears in her eyes, and her smile stretching so big, as she clutches Joffrey tight against her bosom. Uncle Jaime, who has been there the whole time when Father is away, hauls Gendry up so he can look at Joffrey better. He is nothing impressive. His cry pierce the whole room, and he already seems so ever spoilt when he latches onto Mother's bosom as soon as Mother presents her breast to feed. There is no consideration in the act. Joffrey just seems desperate and wanting.

When Mother looks at Uncle Jaime, Uncle Jaime laughs in this almost brittle sort of way that Gendry has never heard him utter. Uncle Jaime leans his forehead against Mother's, and they close their eyes at the contact, breathing each other in. Gendry, five he might be, feels suddenly like he's intruding on a moment.

So he stills his body from moving too much, and tries poking Joffrey's cheek with his own slim finger. Joffrey is undisturbed, but Mother, when she notices, tells him that he shouldn't bother a babe so much. "He is hungry," Mother tells Gendry softly, cooing at Joffrey a moment later. "Let him be full."

"Are you going to love him more than you love me?" Gendry does not sound it to be offensive. He is merely just curious. Uncle Jaime almost swears, anyway.

However, Mother seems to understand that he means no harm. She looks at him for a long time, golden eyes blinking slowly. Gendry meets her stare. Mother is terrifying when she wants to be, but Gendry is as stubborn as she is fierce and commanding as a Queen. Mother isn't attempting to be terrifying, though. She just looks a tiny a bit sad. As though she could not believe Gendry could ever come with such a hasty conclusion. "No, my stag. Never." She reaches one hand to caress his cheek. Gendry barely blinks. She is cold to touch, he thinks. Must be from all the blood she lost.

"I will love all of my children with my entire being. All equally. There is so much love from me to give. You must know this, darling."

Maybe he does, but it feels good to ask anyway. When Father returns from hunting not a moon later, Gendry finally asks if he could start his training with the swords.

 

.

 

They are true. His carers and the handmaidens and his tutors alike. About Mother being more occupied when Joffrey comes.

He is a very talkative child, wide-eyed and filled with tantrum when one thing is amiss. Mother is almost always by his side. Whether that to calm him when he is red-faced and wailing, or because he was naturally attached to her, Gendry isn't certain. For the most part, he has kept himself busy: he has started his training at using the swords, but sometimes, he argues whenever Uncle Jaime tosses him one — a steel, or a wooden for sparring — that it felt too light in his hands. Uncle Jaime laughs. "Light, it may be. But what good is your complaint if you cannot still foresee my moves when I attack?"

Uncle Jaime is a fierce combatant. He is quick as he is strong. For Gendry, all he has is his strength. His bulky features do not always make him the fastest, either. Still, Uncle Jaime is patient. Later, he notes that while Gendry isn't all for attacks, he has a quick form to dodge and defend. Uncle Jaime presents him with a shield. That's another lesson to coordinate both his arms into working together when he has one arm shielded and the other holding a sword, but he's getting better chances at facing Uncle Jaime. Sometimes, he even manages to strike.

He is turning seven when Uncle Jaime finally brings him to the forge.

"This is where the weapons you wield are made." Uncle Jaime speaks of the Street of Steel, about how there being much more options if he ever one day decides the castle forge will not be enough, and how to measure a good steel when you see and touch one. Gendry is more fascinated and fixated on the way the smith had been knocking on the anvil when they both walk in. He tries picking the hammer up. The smithy is red-faced and in panic, "My prince!" He yelps. "Beg your pardon, but that is not a tool befit to be held by—"

He holds it anyway.

It's warm and heavy, but he grips it right and tight under his palm. "May I hammer this?" He asks when he turns, and Uncle Jaime, in the corner of his eyes, look confused and is frowning. Gendry gives him no mind, and stares determinedly at the smith while he stammers.

" _My_ _Prince_ —" He sounds reluctant, and Gendry rolls his eyes. Huffs. He is only seven and a grown man is cowering before him. Had he looked so mean and terrifying?

"I promise I won't break it."

From behind him, Uncle Jaime snorts.

He hits that anvil, and the steel sings. It's the most glorious song he's ever heard.

 

.

 

Grandfather later lectures him that it is not befitting for him to request a lesson in smithing.

He does not particularly care, but Grandfather is horrifying and stern — a man Mother and Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion still slightly tremble under no matter their age — so Gendry learns to keep his mouth taped together lest he wants to be at the end of the eldest Lannister's wrath. He knows he is half-Lion himself, but sometimes he feels otherworldly. It doesn't help when Joffrey begins to grow out his beautiful, blond curls. He looks so much like Mother like that. Gendry tries not to despise him so much, especially when he is particularly amusing if he isn't being a complete brat and shouting at him. Gendry learns that Joffrey likes things that are bigger than he is, but something that can be seen and, even better, touch.

Therefore, religions never entertain him. One day, Gendry hitches his lithe toddler body against his hip and they watch the storm make the waves grow harsher. The sky splits when lightning emerges. Joffrey doesn't like that very much; quickly whimpering and probably leaving bruises along Gendry's torso with how harsh he's kicking him. He likes the waves, though. Sharp and engulfing, it crashes into the rocks and splatters like a tomato thrown and bursting on impact. Joffrey is entranced by that, grabbing at his black, dark hair as though Gendry isn't seeing what he's already intensely watching at.

Point is: he is amusing when he's quiet.

And he isn't quiet a lot. Maybe that's why Gendry and Joffrey do not grow to become particularly close. 

When Gendry is eight, Myrcella is born. She is bald as well at birth, but she doesn't cry as much; in fact, she grows particularly dormant and peaceful as soon as Mother grips her close to her chest and kisses her blue-ish cheeks. Gendry notes once more on the stench of blood and how much he dislikes it, though it does not matter. Mother is calling him, "My stag. My sun," and it's the few times Joffrey doesn't berate him, three and barely speaking properly as he is, when Gendry hauls him up by the armpits so he's able to crawl on the bed to get to their sweat-stricken Mother. Uncle Jaime is already on the other side. Gendry pretends he isn't bothered by the sight.

"Ugly." Joffrey makes a face, and Uncle Jaime snorts. Gendry pulls at Joffrey's blond curls as a warning. When Joffrey turns, he's sniffing at Gendry, clearly not entertained that he's being touched, even by his own brother. "Stupid!"

Mother hushes him because Myrcella is stirring, probably bothered by the noise, but Joffrey just looks on like he's disappointed that Myrcella isn't born a squid or some boar's head like Father would sometimes like to display whenever he's got a kill. Gendry is dreading turning nine. He's already somehow managed to convince Father to not allow him to go hunting with him this year, but that excuse won't hold much when the next year comes. He is growing so much bigger everyday. If he stands at full height, he's sure the top of his head can brush Mother's chin.

"This is all I've ever wanted," Mother murmurs, crying into Myrcella's head and letting Joffrey lies his cheek against her shoulder. Uncle Jaime grins besides them.

Gendry suddenly thinks more furiously about that hammer in the forge, about the heat and the soot and the art of making weapons. Suddenly, he remembers a faded saying once spoken to him: _you are to learn to stand up against the world on your own_. He won't ask for apprenticeship, perhaps; but who's to stop a Prince from forging his own sword if that is what he desires? So, he does.

 

 

.

 

 

He's ten when he's told by the castle smithy that he's good at forging. He's got the raw power for it, and he's resilient and stubborn — two traits that makes staring at a piece of metal for hours seem ideal. Grandfather no longer fights him on, what he calls, "this hobby". As long as Gendry is presentable and know his manners still as a Prince should his duty calls, Grandfather is willing to let him sometimes be spotted with soot and coal marring his face and hands. To add, smithing has made it easier for him to learn to grip his weapons better. He knows the art of shaping them, how the shapes should allow it to move, so he's much smarter at wielding every time Uncle Jaime calls for him to step up and spar.

He's almost eleven when he begs the master of the smith to allow him to assist on the making of Uncle Jaime's new sword.

When it's all forged and cool and shining under the sun, Gendry keeps it in the stitched cover he's asked one the handmaiden to prepare, and he makes his way all over the castle to hand it over before he's whisked away to accompany Father for his hunt. He thinks about the other things he could make — with his own hands. He thinks about possibly even creating his own hammer. People have always kept saying he is like Father; perhaps they will see no crime if he starts owning to the same weapon Robert Baratheon is famous for.

Mother isn't in the nursery where Myrcella and Tommen are mostly kept. Instead, there are only the wet nurses, hushing him down before Gendry could open his mouth.

Gendry doesn't know why he goes there first. Perhaps he'd wanted to show Mother before Uncle Jaime what he has done. Mother doesn't like much that his fingers are getting rougher with the smith's work, often softly urging him to give it up. Maybe if Gendry show her this, she'll see that Gendry can do so much more than whatever a Prince could do. He can forge his own weapon whenever he pleases. How many royalty are able to say that?

So, he goes to her chamber.

There are noises. Loud cries and quick grunts. A swear. He hears Mother says a name — _Jaime_ — and Gendry's heart hammers. Before he can push the door open, a hand is on his chest. Uncle Tyrion. Gendry usually stirs away from this particular Uncle. He knows deep down Uncle Tyrion isn't the monster Mother always paints him to be; and while he beds as many women as Father shamelessly does, he is always kind and wise when Gendry struggles with his letters. He once sat the whole entire five moons until Gendry doesn't stumble over his words to make sure the tutor doesn't knock Gendry's knuckles with his long, sharp, and very thick wooden ruler like he'd already caught the tutor to have done once. He argued before that he only stayed because he knew Gendry wouldn't complaint to anybody no matter how painful it would be. Thus, to avoid such unnecessary, harmful fate, he can spare a few hours to make sure the tutor is put to his place since the beginning. 

Gendry had been silent then, only thanking Uncle Tyrion under his breath when the five moons have passed.

Now, he is silent again as he is led away. Uncle Tyrion is small, but there is no mistake that the hand that's pressing him forward and away is a man's.

"That's not wise, my dearest nephew. Let us be on our way."

All Gendry could see is the top of Uncle Tyrion's head. It's golden.

 

 

.

 

 

Gendry is twelve when they truly begin fashioning him as Father's replacement on the throne.

Father was only taken under a horrible flu, causing him to be bedridden for two weeks with him spending it more unconscious than awake, and already, Gendry understands why Father is so agitated all the time. Father have told him countless of times that he had not meant to start the war the way he did to claim a crown on his head. It had been a prize for leading men into victory, and none of the others — except the Lannisters — were willing to take it. _Of course_ , Father emphasises while his mouth tirelessly swallow more wine than water, _I'd rather bury myself straight into the ground than bend a knee to a lion! So, here I am_.

Gendry used to think he was so ridiculous. If he hates being the King so much, why is he so careless at pulling titles? If he hates Mother's family the way he does, why are they still married? Gendry knows better now, of course.

Being a King, even as a replacement, is tiring and long. Each day groomed to take Father's place is another day he drags himself to his chamber barely being able to pull open his breeches before he falls straight into the comfort of his featherbed. At least, Mother is strong besides him. She has always been excellent at court. It's apart of being a Lion, he thinks, a genetic ability that skips Uncle Jaime perhaps, and probably has skipped him as well, to be so fierce and sharp-witted even without truly bearing the claws.

Gendry isn't as good. He is like Father too much; he's got the temper and the impatience, though he wants to listen. _He wants to be good_. So, he attends and listens and watches. Mother is the one who teaches him that King's Landing is filled mostly with liars and thieves. If not possession, they are out there to steal your words and your ideas and your trust. One must always be careful. Gendry is tired and exhausted when he turns to her and nearly damn wishes he could reply, _I bloody well know_ , but Mother puts one hand against his cheek like he's that four year old again, angry at his playmates for treating him like a fool, and Gendry leans like he isn't a boy of two-and-ten and is expected to lead like he's got many more years than what his true age actually is.

"I don't think I am fit, Mother." Besides Mother, Joffrey watches with narrowed eyes. Gendry pays him no mind. He is staring at his boots, ashamed of his poor performances.

"You are the truest stag there is, my love." Mother croons, her voice is steady and betrays nothing.

He wishes he isn't fixated on his appearance as he is, but he catches glimpse of Myrcella and Tommen's golden heads bobbing in the handmaidens' arms, and he feels like vomiting. He thinks back of the forge; of how the heat calms him. "I'm more like a bull."  _Wants to be nothing like his father, and is literally nothing like his mother. Not unlike the rest of her children_. It fits him. The outsider among the stags and the lions and the many liars. The helm he's made in the shape of it sits on his bedside. Mother once pat it the first time she saw, but she said nothing else since of the matter. Nothing to indicate she may have understood the symbolism.

"Then, be the best bull you can be." Mother brings him down — he has grown taller — until her lips catch the top of his brow, and for a moment, he doesn't hate his black hair as much. Not if Mother still wants him like this. "You can, Gendry. You must."

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

"Joffrey scared my cat again!" Tommen is crying, his knees are covered in dirt.

Gendry curses under his breath, but he drops his hammer, and tries his best to rub the soot as much as he could against the apron. It's a good thing Tommen hadn't come much later — or else Gendry would've had his shirt off, and he couldn't imagine being able to carry his youngest brother back into the Red Keep shirtless without angering some of the people of the court. They seem to always have a problem or two with how things are. Gendry is tired of the castle and the laws, though he isn't allowed to say it aloud.

He kneels before Tommen, and hushes the five year old as best as he could. He isn't _that_ good, though.

His first time being a brother to Joffrey hadn't gone very well. They've had their moments together when Gendry's temperament is calm enough to handle him, of course, but Gendry has always been much more comfortable on his own. Myrcella and Tommen hadn't seem to mind the social gap he's created himself with Joffrey, though; often time naturally coming to him whenever a new guest or a scary face are around and Mother isn't anywhere to be found. At least all four of them could agree on the fact that their Father is the last person to approach. Gendry is smarter since he was a child. He knows only to ask anything of the King if he's thoroughly thought of a plan and wants it to be quickly executed. Otherwise, he steers clear. Father's moods certainly aren't getting any better with age, unlike the songs and the tales the books would feed the children.

"Tommen. I can't wipe your tears away. I'll get soot all over you." He tells stubbornly, already wincing at the smudge of ash that makes its way when he tries to push away at Tommen's blond locks.

The youngest doesn't seem to care, nor does he sound like he's listening, when he jumps quickly into Gendry's arms, sobbing some more. Gendry curses again, though this time quieter and hopes Tommen wouldn't repeat the cuss anywhere during his studies, before he gives in and lifts Tommen with him as he stands. Tommen is small and light for a five year old. He looks like a doll, more so than Myrcella had been. Gendry has never felt more out of place, not until he's standing side by side like this. 

"Are you hurt?" He asks, hoping the question would force Tommen to stop his cries and answer.

It doesn't, not quickly, but the little lion hiccups anyway. Rubbing his snotty nose at where Gendry's thin shirt are stitched together at the shoulders. "No..."

"Your cat ran away, I take it?"

"Joffrey was making traps all over! He's so _mean!_ " Whatever anger that lights up Tommen's bright, green eyes are immediately replaced once again with a wave of sadness. Gendry doesn't know he's holding his breath at an anticipation of that Tommen might cry out loudly until all he does is wobble his lower, pink lips. Gendry breathes out carefully, and Tommen continues. "I bet Pippa is so scared. She's not a very brave kitten, you know."

"This the one with the bad eye, isn't it? Fat, pinkish thing, yeah?"

"Her eye have got infection, Gendry! Maester Pycelle said there's nothing to be done! Don't laugh!"

Sometimes his days aren't so bad.

Later, having cleaned up together, Myrcella comes — this time, _she's_ the one in dirts and branches sticking out of her hair. The handmaiden seeing her nearly faints, and Gendry is half tempted to scold and yell at how people would think he irresponsible for allowing his two youngest siblings to appear so dirty when he's the only one who's technically been primarily granted with his work at the smith, until she thrusts Pippa, the fat blind thing, at Tommen's chest and the youngest one tears up again. Gendry's whole body rouses in a state of panic, but Myrcella laughs. That calms him down immediately, and he presses a knuckle against Tommen's cheek — this time, smiling when there isn't a trail of soot following — to remind him to not cry.

Towards Myrcella, Gendry tugs on a golden braid. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Myrcella replies brightly. Gendry is glad.

"You did good." He compliments, meaning it.

"I only did what anybody would've done." 

 _No_ , Gendry thinks, _not anybody_.

 

 

.

 

 

"Are you to marry, Gendry?" Myrcella asks one day when they are greeting a family. The Tyrells, Gendry thinks the names are. He couldn't be bothered.

"What?"

"Marry?" Myrcella's eyes are wide and green when they meet. Sometimes Myrcella carries herself so much like an adult, _like a lady_ , that he's quick to forget she is only seven still. Seven and growing and small. Mother couldn't protect her alone. "There has been talk. Margaery Tyrell seems to be very fond of you. I would know. She told me."

Margaery is lean and pretty, but Gendry isn't interested. He'll marry if he must, but it isn't what he wants. 

 _I want a hammer_ , he thinks, curling his fist behind his back, until Tommen physically tugs at the same hand and uses it as a lever of sort to climb on his large body. He is usually quiet and meek, the youngest Baratheon — but he's really as adventurous as his cats, Gendry thinks. He lets Tommen latch onto him. The contrast that exists there, while tugs at him, is kept wrapped under where no one, he hopes, pry. "Don't marry. If you do, doesn't that mean you'll be taken far away?" Tommen's chin is on his arm, and when Gendry looks down, he is almost tempted to smile at how silly this must look from the outside. "Don't leave the Red Keep, Gendry."

 _You're too young,_ he thinks suddenly. _You haven't felt the suffocation of this castle_.

Myrcella answers for him instead, "Silly! If Gendry is to wed, _he_ doesn't have to go anywhere. It's Margaery who has to stay here and be his Queen."

Oh. Another thing to hate. Great.

"Oh," Tommen seems to echo his first sentiment. He tries hiking up his feet so he could further climb his older brother as though Gendry is made of ladders instead of pure muscle and warm blood. "Then, that's okay."

 _It isn't_. Gendry is only five-and-ten. He's not ready. He doesn't tell Tommen or Myrcella this. "I'll never leave you," Gendry is strong and capable. Father once saw him swung the hammer he made, and it's the best damn thing he claims he's ever seen. It's the few hours Father hasn't been totally drunk. Gendry thinks that should count for something. "You're small. Both of you. I'll have to protect you."

"Gendry." Mother calls, and the three of them whips to the voice. Tommen is red in the face with embarrassment, no doubt, quickly jumping off his oldest brother. Mother barely bats an eye, only comes forward to smooth out wrinkles that don't actually exist yet on Tommen's small shirt. "Quick. Your father calls you."

Before he leaves, Mother kisses him long and deep on his forehead. 

"You are so strong. Stronger than I would ever imagine." Mother whispers, holding onto the back of his neck as though she is scared that he'll flee from her too soon. Does she know, he wonders. Does she know that he feels so trapped and he is dying under this collar? Perhaps she does. Gendry knows Mother too, feels suffocated. Once he is King, and if he is unwed, Mother will be Queen Regent. She will rule right by him. She can do whatever she wants, as long as it is not cruel. Grandfather will never control her. If anything, Gendry would want to be King for this.

"Mother."

"I will never let anything happen to you." Her eyes are feral, but her hands are soft and meaningful when she drops them and brushes back Myrcella's golden hair. "None of you."

"And I, you."

Mother closes his eyes like she needs a second to let the words sink in — to allow herself to believe him. When she opens them, Gendry somehow has an inkling that she does.  _Good_ , he thinks. Because he means it. Mother may have many children, and Gendry may feel isolated with each that come, but she will always be his one lady mother. No one else. When he first open his eyes, he imagines, it would be like how Joffrey or Myrcella or Tommen had: with Mother the first figure he sees.

"The only stag to my lion."

He is a bull, always, but he does not correct her.

 

 

.

 

 

When he is sixteen, the truth comes out.

Turns out, he is a child of a tavern's wench. He is, in a way, a bastard. An unclaimed child, left behind. Or, rather, _traded_. Mother's biological son, a sickly thing, were left to die in a ditch somewhere while Gendry, having just recovered from the same fever in his birth mother's arm, are taken from her. He is only a Prince by luck. Joffrey is thrilled when he hears of this, calling him all sort of horrible thing that his mind could think of. _Dirty_ , is one of them. _Lowborn_ , is another. Father doesn't bat much of an eye regarding this: as far as he is concerned, Gendry is educated and princely enough to be the next King. But it isn't the same. It will never be the same.

For a moment, Myrcella and Tommen seems to stop speaking to him. Gendry thinks he deserves this. Half of his blood is not noble. It is only fitting. Until Myrcella has had enough only a few days in and claims that he is her brother no matter the mother that has given him birth. Tommen cries in relief; he'd never understood why Gendry is suddenly so isolated and hated, and starts telling all of the missed stories regarding the kittens he's fostered.

The worst is Mother. She does not — could not — even spare him a glance.

Gendry could not blame her. He has always tried to tell Mother that he is a bull, _mismatched and unfit_ , but Mother insists that he is a stag. Though by the end of the day, the symbolism is moot. All he wants is his mother's voice telling him she loves him still; because Gendry hasn't an idea of his birth mother, the only one he's ever known — the only who's ever mattered — was _her_.

When they leave for Winterfall at the fall of Jon Arryn, the Hand, Gendry is instructed to stay behind. 

Father pats him on the shoulder, Joffrey leers and spits about how he's obviously been abandoned, Myrcella kisses his cheek when no one else seems to be paying attention, and Tommen tells him specifically to take care of all the cats until he comes back. Mother just walks pass. Gendry lets her.

 

 

.

 

 

His illegitimacy causes a problem. He isn't deemed worthy of the crown due to his parentage, so it passes over to Joffrey once Father is buried in the crypts. Normally, Gendry would've sighed in relief. _It's everything he's ever wanted:_ to not be a King. But it's not right. Joffrey is sadistic and mean. Gendry could hardly believe he was the same boy Gendry would carry by the hips every time there is a storm or the lions are to be fed at the Rock. He was always with an explosive temper, but now it is only clear that power does not make it look prettier. Gendry is sent to work at Flea Bottom, _where he belonged_ Joffrey claims, and he packs his things all the while wishing he could first hit the forge before anything else. He's got a temper, too. He is a Baratheon, even if his birth mother was not noble. Why was it okay for Joffrey to freely express his rage while Gendry has to reel his own every time?

 

Without truly looking back, he leaves.

 

 

.

 

 

When Master Mott sells him to the Night's Watch, Gendry isn't as surprised as he thought he should be. Make no mistake, he is shocked. He had thought he was capable enough to be an apprentice, and he hadn't asked much — no matter the state of living was a harsh condition he'd had to adjust to in such a short period of time — but with how everything had went magnificently to shite lately, Gendry figures it could always be worse. This time, when he leaves, he packs even more minimal of stuff. Few shirts, breeches and his helm. His hammer had been too much to carry out from the castle ground when he had stormed out, and he'd thought he could just make a new one — a better one — after he's earned his place here. 'Course. No such luck.

What surprises him is later, when the recruiter isn't exactly sticking around to lead him to where the rest of the Night's Watch recruits are gathered.

"Gendry."

He knows that voice. When he turns, he thinks he could nearly damn cry. A more childish part of him wonders if this means Mother is taking him home? But he knows better. He has been, for a while. Instead, choking out, he lowers his head; tempted to kneel. She is Queen, after all. "Your Grace."

"No." She does not touch him, but she does lead them to a narrower alley. She is in a cloak and a simpler dress. But she's dressing too nicely. Soon, someone surely would recognise. "Don't."

He does not lift his gaze.

"You—" Mother seems like she's hurt, just being there, just spending time speaking with him. Of course, she is. Hadn't he, in reality, betrayed her? Lived his whole life pretending he's her son, when he is not. All he knows of her now is her gaze that never trails over him anymore, and when it does, it is filled with disbelief and scorn. He's forgotten how it'd felt like when times are better: her hands in his hair. Her comfort when he is angry or agitated or bothered. He'd just known she was there. That was enough for him. He supposes it's not enough for her. "You should have been King."

This time, Gendry did lift his chin up. Mother's gaze is unflinching, sad. Why is she sad? He is not hers to mourn when he leaves.

"I—" His voice is stuck. He does not expect this. "I'm lowborn, Your Grace."

"No." Mother's voice is a lioness' snap. It pains him how he grew up wanting so much to look more like her. Just her lashes maybe. Or the sharp of her jaw. Anything. Now it makes sense why it never came true. " _No_."

"My Queen—"

"You promise you'd protect me." She is angry now. Of course she would be. A Lannister always pays their debt. And Gendry, though he lacks the lion, has made a promise. That is a debt. One he has failed to pay.

He is ashamed. So, he nods - slowly. "I did."

"Let me look at you." And he does. Finally, though hesitantly, Mother reaches out. At first tentative, and he winces at the reminder that he's covered in grimes, but Mother looks as though he's present without any dirt or rag to his person. That he is clean to touch and small, still, under her careful eyes; she lets his fingers trail over the hairline, until, like she's always done, she pushes his hair back. He towers over her, has been for a while, but like this, he is nothing but her child. Always her child. "My strongest stag."

" _Mother_ —" His voice cracks, and Mother finally holds onto him. Tight. Her perfume is familiar.

"Joffrey is killing all the bastards of your father. Every last one." Mother whispers into his ear, fierce, efficient. Gendry's eyes shot open, and he wants to push away to see if she's serious, but Mother's grip is secure. She doesn't intend on letting go. Not yet. "That is why you must leave."

"Maybe he should." Death, he thinks, is just another state of being trapped. He wonders, truly, when he will be free.

" _No_." Mother squeezes him, but it is not out of affection. She is angry. "Not you."

Gendry understands.

"You are the only Mother I've ever known. I ever will." He croaks out and he feels pathetic when there is a tear running down his left cheek. He wipes them away. This used to be Tommen's role. The crier. Suddenly, he misses him so. Misses the familiarity. He hopes Myrcella and Tommen are taking care of one another, now that he isn't there to watch them anymore.

"I know." Mother doesn't touch him anymore. "Go."

He does.

 

 

.

 

 

 _You are to learn to stand up against the world on your own_.

But that doesn't mean he couldn't help others if need be. He just isn't sure that that also includes somehow finding himself tethered to an add group, with Arya Stark of Winterfell, the wild wolf alive in her veins, leading the pack. Gendry decides, with a breath exhaled through his nose, that it could be worse. Arya is smart, even if she's too impulsive than he cares to truly look after (but still does anyway), and they keep each other's secrets like they're treasures instead of the horrifying things they truly are. Funny, for when they were in the Keep, Gendry could barely produce any energy to truly entertain the Hand's daughters, and now he doesn't think he could ever forget Arya Stark and her ruthlessness against the wild. Maybe that's why it's easy: to follow her, to feel like he should try his hand at protecting. Gendry, the exiled Prince, and Arya, the runaway Princess.

It could almost be like a song. When he tells Arya this, she smacks and calls him _Stupid_.

He can't help it - he laughs.

Life goes on.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i. i just wanted to write an AU where gendry had been raised by cersei, loved by her even, only for everybody to somehow find out that he wasn't the trueborn son. then, things went as canon did.
> 
> ii. also, gendry as a big brother is: A Concept everybody should consider.
> 
> iii. title is inspired by halsey's roman holiday, particularly from the line, "i remember when my father puts a fist through the wall that separates the dining room." i have no idea the clearest coloration between that lyric and this whole fic, but maybe the idea of growing up together in a not-so-ideal-borderline-abusive household was what i was aiming for? probably.
> 
> iv. thanks for reading, and tell me your thoughts if u think cersei really did love him ooor maybe she was just paying a debt because gendry has been nice to her other children!
> 
> v. edited march twenty-eight 2019 @ that tiny bit regarding gendry's journey with arya following canon.


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